by John Hall
‘It certainly has much to recommend it as a theory,’ said Holmes, ‘but there are certain objections.’
‘Why, so there are to any theory we have thus far formulated!’
‘True enough.’ Holmes pointed with his stick. ‘This is our road, I fancy. Tell me, since we are theorizing, what say you to this – Welsh did not quarrel with his wife over her mother, but because he believed she was involved with Gregson.’
‘Holmes!’
‘Is it so fanciful, then? Mrs Welsh is not unattractive, is she?’
‘In a matronly sort of way, I suppose –’
‘And these are egalitarian times, Watson, a man may easily take a fancy to a housekeeper. Especially a man such as Gregson – why, did not you yourself call him a mangy tom cat, or something of the kind?’
‘Stuff and nonsense, Holmes! Anyway, it would be an easy enough matter to ask Mrs Welsh what they spoke about, surely?
‘A wife cannot testify against her husband,’ said Holmes in an abstracted fashion. ‘Anyway, Mrs Welsh might not associate the quarrel with the murder, and if she did, she might well decide that it were best not to get her husband into trouble. No, let us continue – suppose Welsh had some cause for jealousy – or simply believed that he had such cause – and had words with his wife? She leaves, angry. Welsh knows that Gregson is in the porch, for he has seen him go in from the garden. He does not know that Gregson has left, and Morgan gone in. Blind with jealousy, Welsh bursts into the dining room, pulls open the door of the porch, and – with a practised hand, a hand used to wielding the bayonet – he stabs at the man inside.’
‘With a letter opener that is upstairs in Gregson’s room?’ I scoffed.
‘That is one objection, but it is the one overwhelming objection that must needs be met whatever theory we adopt. Suppose that the jealous Welsh had taken the letter opener earlier, and was just waiting for the opportunity to use it? Is there not a poetic justice in killing a man with his own knife, after all?’
‘It is a theory,’ I said. ‘But I don’t believe it for one moment. Do you?’
‘It is a theory,’ Holmes agreed.
‘Welsh is so obviously devoted to his wife! Incapable of dishonesty, or anger!’
‘Perhaps. Ah, “Cherry Trees”. Aptly named.’ He waved his stick at the trees which had given the house its name, now devoid of all but a few lingering blossoms. ‘A metaphor of life itself, Doctor. In full flower one moment, and then the next – the harsh winds of reality reduce one to a pile of rubbish, fit only for burning! Ah, me!’
In no mood for introspection, I snorted and briskly led the way up a broad gravel path, and rang the doorbell vigorously. An elderly and respectable housekeeper opened it almost at once, and regarded me suspiciously.
‘Might we see Mr John Merryweather?’ I said. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and I am Doctor John Watson.’
‘Oh, Doctor! Yes, indeed, sir. Come in, come in. And your friend,’ she added, looking through Holmes.
The housekeeper led the way through the house without stopping, until we came to a door on the far side. She opened this, and took us out on to a kind of terrace, overlooking a large but somewhat untidy garden. A pale young man of twenty or so sat on the terrace in a wicker chair. As we approached, he got up and looked from one to another of us.
‘This gentleman is a doctor, Mr John,’ the housekeeper told him.
‘Really, Mrs Timms!’ His voice was a mixture of irritation and amusement. ‘I fear Mrs Timms has been over-anxious, sir. Your services are really not required. But now you are here, may I offer you some refreshment?’
‘It was not Mrs Timms who sent for us,’ said Holmes. ‘We are here in connection with the sad business at Belmont yesterday. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor John Watson.’
‘Oh, I see.’ His face became grave. ‘Will you sit down?’ and he waved us to chairs. ‘Mrs Timms, would you bring us some tea? Unless –’
‘Tea would be most acceptable,’ said Holmes.
‘You will excuse the misunderstanding,’ said Merryweather, when the housekeeper had gone. ‘Your names are familiar to me from the pages of the Strand, of course, and it comes as no surprise that the local police should have called upon your services. But when Mrs Timms said you were a doctor, sir, I naturally assumed at the outset that she had sent for you to take a look at me.’
‘Are you unwell, then?’ I said.
‘Not in the least, sir! And I told Mrs Timms as much yesterday, and again this morning. Shaky, I allow. Upset. But then who would not be?’
‘Indeed,’ said Holmes. His perceptive glance took in the garden. ‘You are, as I understand it, about to undertake a course of study in horticulture?’
‘In estate management, sir. We – the would-be students, I mean – were told that it might be as well if we had some little practical experience before commencing the more theoretical portion of the course. Some of the chaps I know are at the Royal Botanic Gardens, some working on farms or the like. But I knew that an extra gardener was sought at Belmont, if one could be persuaded to come cheap, and it is but a few minutes’ walk away, so what could be better? Although with my duties in the Belmont garden, I have rather neglected this one, I fear. Ah,’ he went on, as the housekeeper returned with a tray, ‘thank you, Mrs Timms. Help yourselves, gentlemen.’
‘Thank you,’ said Holmes, pouring tea for us all. He looked round the garden once more. ‘This is your father’s house, is it not?’
‘It is, sir.’ The youth’s face clouded slightly. ‘He is, I regret to say, not in the best of health himself.’
‘Indeed?’ I said. ‘Despite any initial misunderstandings, I am in truth a medical man, so if I may be of any assistance – ?’
‘It is most kind of you, Dr Watson, but he has had good advice. The truth is, he is not so much physically ill as disturbed in his mind – oh,’ he added quickly, ‘nothing unpleasant, you understand. He is, as I might say, something of a recluse, that is all. He has been for some time, now, since the loss of my mother. That is why I decided to turn an interest in horticulture and agriculture into what will, I hope, be a lucrative career. That, and a certain reluctance to become too much of a recluse in my turn. We – Mrs Timms, myself, the maids – we try to keep anything troublesome from intruding upon him. In fact, I have not yet told him any details of what occurred yesterday. I did say that there had been an accident – I feared lest the maids, for all their care, might let something out about it, and thought it as well to prepare him.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, I know this may be distressing to you, but I should like to ask about the events of yesterday.’
‘Of course, but I can really tell you nothing I have not already told the police.’
‘You went into the house at three o’clock?’
Merryweather nodded. ‘I had had something of an upset stomach all day – the collywobbles, as old Mrs Timms is wont to call them – and used the domestic offices next to the kitchen. I went into the kitchen itself, washed my hands at the sink, and took my tea outside.’
‘You would normally use the outside offices?’
Merryweather gave a strained smile. ‘It is that, or go right through the kitchen to the offices used by the maids. The outside place is quite adequate.’
‘You would not go into the main house for that purpose, then?’
‘Lord, no!’ Merryweather looked shocked. ‘Not at all the done thing! I must confess, I had not hitherto thought about the invisible barriers – the kitchen door, beyond which the outside staff pass only by permission of the housekeeper; and – more to the point – the baize door between the masters and servants. I trust that my few weeks at Belmont have made me more considerate of our own poor little Abigail – and dear Mrs Timms – though I fear the effect will be only temporary.’
‘It may have a more profound effect,’ said Holmes. ‘The spirit, the animus or persona of the ancients, is a strange and wonderful thing indeed. And ho
w long was it between your leaving the garden to come inside, and your returning with your tea?’
‘Oh – five minutes? About that.’
‘It could not have been ten?’
‘I cannot swear that it was not. Between five and ten minutes, not much less, but certainly not more.’
‘Very well. Were Welsh and his wife in the kitchen when you went to wash?’
‘Yes, sir. They seemed – well, they seemed to be having some sort of discussion – not a heated argument by any means, but a mild difference of opinion, perhaps. The atmosphere seemed a touch strained when I went in, so I did not stay, as I might otherwise have done, but took my tea outside.’
‘And then?’
‘And then the next thing I knew, Welsh opened the door of the porch thing, and shouted across to me. I could not make him out at first, and then I realised that he was asking was there any intruder in the garden.’
‘And was there?’
‘No, no-one. I said as much, then – being naturally curious as to what was going on – I went across to the house, and saw –’ and he broke off, his face turning paler yet.
‘Do not distress yourself,’ said Holmes in his most soothing tones.
‘No, I’m all right. I was not, then, I confess – my upset stomach showed its displeasure, and with a vengeance. I hung around until the police had questioned me – I told them just what I’ve told you now – and then slunk back here, and passed a most unpleasant night.’
‘And you are quite certain there could have been nobody in the garden?’
‘As certain as I can be. Mr Welsh and I were working up by the house, so there might have been someone lurking further down, where it is more overgrown, but I think not. There are rooks in the old trees at the far end, and they reveal the presence of any intruders.’
‘And they did not do so yesterday?’
‘No, sir. I think Mr Welsh and I would have known had there been anyone there – it is a quiet place, and we should have heard the birds, as I say, or seen some other sign.’
‘But you could not swear as to what might have been going on whilst you were in the house.’
‘Well – I suppose not. But I can tell you that if anyone did come to the house and leave again by the garden, then he must have been a pretty useful sprinter.’
Holmes laughed, and got up. ‘Thank you for the tea. By the way, there is a lane of sorts at the back of Belmont, is there not?’
‘Yes. You go a little further down the road in front of this house, take the first right, then right again. It is more a wide footpath than a real lane, but it takes you back to Belmont. There is a gate and a stile, and a rustic notice board telling trespassers to keep out.’
‘Thank you,’ said Holmes.
‘And may I express the hope that your father’s health may improve?’ I added.
‘It is very good of you, sir, but I fear that the best I can hope for is that it will get no worse.’
‘Then by all means let us hope for that,’ said Holmes, shaking the young man’s hand. ‘And now we must leave you.’
Chapter Six
‘And what do you think to that young man, Watson?’ asked Holmes as he set off down the road.
‘He seems forthright enough. And his testimony corroborates what we already knew.’
‘Indeed. One thing emerged, and that is that the outside staff were not in the habit if venturing into the main house, although Welsh is obviously an exception. The letter opener, then, must have been taken from Gregson’s room either by a guest, or by one of the inside servants.’
‘You entirely dismiss the notion of a tramp, or casual burglar, then?’
‘I put it low on the list of possibilities, let us say. The guests are perhaps the most likely candidates, although I agree that it is not a pleasant thought.’ He frowned. ‘Or the Welshes? H’mm.’
‘Perhaps one of the maids – ?’
‘They are “maids” by courtesy only, I fear,’ said Holmes. ‘Both are, you will have observed, rather elderly and respectable women. Neither struck me as having a homicidal gleam in her eye, or – though it is perhaps a trifle ungallant to say it – as being likely to have a lover to whom the letter opener might be handed for use as a weapon.’
‘And by the same token, and despite your plausible arguments, I am inclined to dismiss the Welshes, husband and wife,’ I said. ‘Apart from their patent honesty, neither of them appears to me to have any good reason to kill one of the guests. Which does just leave one of the guests, unpalatable though the idea undoubtedly is, just as you say.’ I stopped dead in my tracks, and looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Holmes, I am growing increasingly concerned about Gregson – do you really think we are justified in letting him go on all unknowing and unsuspicious?’
Holmes pointed with his stick. ‘This is our lane, Watson. Yes, you are right. I shall take steps to ensure that Gregson has nothing to fear from the killer, always assuming that Gregson was the intended victim.’
I started down the lane he had indicated. ‘I am glad to hear you say so, Holmes. This must be the footpath the lad spoke of,’ I added, leading the way off to the right.
A walk of under half a mile along a path, dark and cool in the shade of the great trees on either hand, brought us to a gate, with a roughly made notice board reading, ‘Belmont. Private. Keep out.’ I made as if to enter, but Holmes pulled me back.
‘A moment, Watson. I am anxious to examine the outside of the house, and the garden, but they will still be at luncheon, and I do not want to disturb them.’
‘Or let them see what you are up to, Holmes?’
‘As you say. So let us first take this opportunity to look at this end of the garden, for your tramps or gypsies must needs have come this way.’ He examined the gate thoroughly. ‘Nothing to be made of that, I fear. Recently oiled, by Welsh, I suppose.’ He opened the gate, and set off up a steep and narrow path, all overgrown with weeds. ‘Someone has passed this way, you see,’ he said, pointing to where some of the weeds and brambles had been roughly pushed aside. ‘That may be Welsh again, of course, or any of the guests who have a taste for solitary rambling.’
‘I came this way myself, yesterday morning,’ I said.
‘It is probably used all the time,’ said Holmes, with some chagrin in his voice. He set off through the gate without more ado.
The path led up through tall old trees, which did an excellent job of concealing us from anyone looking out of the house, or the more formal section of the garden. But those old trees held the rookery of which Merryweather had spoken, and as Holmes moved ahead of me, the birds cawed and fluttered, expressing their displeasure at the disturbance of their afternoon’s rest.
‘Excellent sentinels, Holmes!’ I said.
‘Indeed, Watson,’ he replied, with just a touch of disapproval, for he had an odd trait of refusing to accept anything he had been told without verifying it for himself. ‘We may assume that the gardeners would have been alerted to any outsider coming this way.’ He diverted from the path. ‘H’mm. The same would apply to anyone climbing over the wall.’
‘They might have come over the fence from next door,’ I suggested, pointing to the boundary.
‘Yes, but they must still conceal themselves here, or hereabouts, and that would alert the rooks. I think we may rule this approach out.’ He left the trees, and stood on the edge of the lawn which led up to the house. ‘Right, Watson. You are concealed here, having somehow managed not to alert the rooks. You see the gardeners go inside, and you set off. Could you reach the house, stab your victim, and return in five minutes?’
‘Easily! But I would not care to. Why, if anyone looked out of any of those windows, they could not miss you!’
‘Of course they could not fail to miss you. Now – but what’s this?’ and he broke off as Welsh, his face grim, came through the trees towards us.
‘Now, then – oh, it’s you gents!’ Welsh’s face cleared. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, I thought it might have b
een – you know? I heard the old birds cawing, and thought that someone was down here who shouldn’t be.’
‘I wanted to see if we could approach the house from the back lane without being seen,’ said Holmes.
Welsh shook his head. ‘Can’t be done, begging your pardon, sir. Anyone in the garden must be certain to hear those birds. Wasn’t it the old Greeks, or Romans, or someone kept geese, for the same reason? Well, geese let you know if anyone comes calling all right, but I’d back the rooks any day.’
‘I think you are right,’ said Holmes. ‘Is luncheon over?’
‘Mine is, sir,’ said Welsh, grinning broadly. ‘The gentlemen might still be at table, of course.’
‘No matter,’ said Holmes. ‘I want a look at the outside of the house,’ and he suited his actions to his words, strolling up and down the lawn, examining the house from every angle. Welsh looked at Holmes for a while, then went off to his work.
‘Well, Holmes?’ said I at the end of ten minutes.
‘As we have shown, it would be both difficult and dangerous to approach from this end of the garden, right enough,’ he said. ‘But consider this, Watson – someone in the library, looking out of the window, would see gardeners and Gregson alike enter the house. There is not a French window as such in the library, but the windows in there come close – you observe that they are quite large enough for a man to get through, and the sills are no more than two feet from the ground. Our man might easily climb out, take – what? – six or seven paces to the porch, commit the crime, and hasten back.’
‘But Lane was in the library!’
‘Asleep, by his own account.’